


Enthrall

by sciencefictioness



Series: Enthrall [1]
Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Vampire, Blood Drinking, Blood Kink, Blood and Gore, Exhibitionism, Grooming, M/M, Mentions of Arthur/John, Mentions of Dutch/Arthur/John, Mentions of Dutch/John, Thrall Arthur, Unhealthy Relationships, Vampire Dutch, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-07
Updated: 2019-05-07
Packaged: 2020-02-27 11:52:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,636
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18738472
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sciencefictioness/pseuds/sciencefictioness
Summary: It’s cold without his jacket, without his shirt.  Arthur’s laying on his back in the leaves, staring up through half-barren branches.  The torn sleeves of his coat are tangled up around his elbows; Arthur would pull his arms free, but everything is hazy.  The moon is waning, just a thin crescent and a smattering of stars peeking through clouds that roll across the sky.  They move so fast it’s eerie.  Arthur is dizzy watching them, even on the ground.There’s a stream nearby— it’s where Arthur had been.  Before.There is a before, now.  An after.Who he was, and who he is, and who he’s going to be; Arthur listens to the water run, colder by the second.He wonders how much blood is in him.  It’s the first time but not the last.





	Enthrall

**Author's Note:**

  * For [nukawinter](https://archiveofourown.org/users/nukawinter/gifts).



> The tags regarding mentions of other relationships are mostly relevant going forward in future pieces set in this universe, and not really as important for this piece itself, but I wanted to put them there anyway so you know what you're getting into, just in case. Thanks to Karo for commissioning me, you are indeed the best and the world doesn't deserve you!
> 
> The rest of you, please enjoy!

It’s cold without his jacket, without his shirt.  Arthur’s laying on his back in the leaves, staring up through half-barren branches.  The torn sleeves of his coat are tangled up around his elbows; Arthur would pull his arms free, but everything is hazy.  The moon is waning, just a thin crescent and a smattering of stars peeking through clouds that roll across the sky. They move so fast it’s eerie.  Arthur is dizzy watching them, even on the ground.

 

There’s a stream nearby— it’s where Arthur had been.  Before.

 

There is a before, now.  An after.

 

Who he was, and who he is, and who he’s going to be; Arthur listens to the water run, colder by the second.

 

He wonders how much blood is in him.  It’s the first time but not the last.

 

It was warm for a while, dripping down his neck and into dirt underneath him, but it’s slowed to a trickle.  Arthur tries to lift his hand, to touch the wound, but it’s all caught up in his clothes and he doesn’t have the strength.  Something rustles in the trees. Arthur can’t feel his heart beating.

 

He wonders if he’ll notice when it stops.

 

Wonders if it will hurt, or if everything will just go still and silent.  If he’ll close his eyes and never wake again; it wouldn’t be so bad. Arthur can think of worse things.

 

Can remember worse things, late at night when everything is quiet and he is blessedly but viciously alone.

 

Arthur feels drugged.  It’s nothing like it was at first.

 

He’d been sitting by a fire, all by himself with hunger gnawing in his belly.  Cuts on his hands from a shoddy attempt at skinning a rabbit, miles away from anywhere.  

 

Miles away from anyone, or so he’d thought.  

 

Someone came crashing through the trees, dishevelled and snarling with rings on their fingers, gaunt like they’d been starved.

 

Black eyed and impossible with a bright red mouth; Arthur couldn’t stop staring at it.  He tells himself later it was their teeth that drew his eyes— long and brutal and glinting in the firelight— and not their lips shining vibrant crimson.

 

Blood soaked, and beautiful.  

 

The part of Arthur that felt fear and the part that felt _want_ were all tangled up, heart beating too fast and too much blood in his veins and no air to breathe.

 

Then the man growled, lips curled back from what could only be called fangs, and tackled Arthur into the dirt.  He let out a shocked gasp of surprise. Arthur grabbed at their hair instinctively, tangling his fingers into it and pulling.  There was no give, no reaction; just the smell of earth and old metal, and hands tilting his face to the side. Gentle where everything else was rough.  Careful.

 

_Like a lover._

 

It slipped into his head entirely unbidden, and then there were sharp teeth at his throat sinking deep.  Pain, _pain,_ but only for a moment, and then it shifted into warmth.  Into heat, and need, and Arthur arched into it, all the fight gone out of him.  He whined— a helpless sound, high and pathetic— and rocked into the body pressing him down, clutching at their ragged clothes.  Rutting mindlessly, some ancient, animal piece of Arthur that kept him out of the dark going quiet.

 

Nothing in his life had ever felt so good, and nothing ever would again, and all Arthur could do is let it wash over him.

 

Let it eat him alive.

 

Arthur came in his clothes with a pitiful mewl, but the bliss never faded, even as dizziness rolled into him and his fingers fell slack into the leaves.  There was the wet sound of someone lapping at his throat, tongue slick and hot against him. Distantly Arthur realized they were feeding on him, but it didn’t feel important right then.

 

The only important thing was that they never _stopped._

 

It was a long time before they finally withdrew and sat up on top of Arthur, straddling him in the dirt.  Arthur whimpered at the sudden hollow place in his chest— he was cold, and alone, and _so empty—_ but then there were hands on his cheeks, tilting his face to the side again.  Arthur couldn’t open his eyes, but he leaned into the touch. Followed it as best he could, hips trying to rock even though he was spent and soft and sated.

 

“My dear boy.  Look at you.” A thumb slid across his lips; Arthur opened for it, and pulled it into his mouth.  “Oh, you go down easy, don’t you?” Arthur nodded his head even though he didn’t know what they meant, and they hummed like he’d pleased them.  “Christ alive, son. Can’t let you die on me, can I? Be a goddamn waste I can’t abide. Give me a moment, I’ll be right back.”

 

The weight lifted off him, and Arthur let out a broken noise in complaint, eyes finally coming open to take in the sky overhead.  

 

Rolling clouds.  Vivid stars. The person who’d been laving at his throat and drinking him in is gone.

 

It’s longer than a moment.

 

Arthur bleeds into the leaves and thinks about dying, that drugging euphoria pouring out of him drop by drop.

 

When they finally comes back they crouch next to Arthur and cradle his head in their palm.  Gently, gently. Arthur blinks up at them— at _him,_ black hair, black eyes.  There is no discernable iris there, no sclera or pupils.  Ink filled and infinite.

 

Ragged clothes.  Pale skin.

 

Red, red lips.  

 

Arthur can’t look away.

 

“Alright, son.  Let’s fix you up, yeah?”

 

Arthur doesn’t know if he wants fixed, really, but then the man’s wrist is at his mouth, wet with blood.  It drips past his teeth, and lands on his tongue.

 

It doesn’t taste like Arthur’s own.  

 

Not like when he splits his lip, or cuts himself on the dull edge of a knife, hissing and sucking at the wound.  It’s thick, and Arthur claws weakly at the man’s arm to hold it against his mouth. Latches on, mewling into his skin, heat pouring into Arthur with every pull.  He’s not cold, anymore.

 

He’s on fire.

 

“Easy, now, easy.  Take it slow.”

 

He doesn’t.  He can’t.

 

Arthur whines again, twisting himself around until he’s almost in the man’s lap, arm pulled around his side.  As though they’re sharing a bed, and Arthur wants him close.

 

As though Arthur is his to hold.

 

He clings, hard again in his ruined jeans, leaning back against the solid weight of him.  Licks, and swallows, blood oozing down his chin and messy on his hands. It shouldn’t be like this— like he’ll die if he doesn’t get more.  Like it’s all he’s ever wanted.

 

A before, and an after.

 

Then, and now.

 

The flow eases and then finally stops, wound closing up under his mouth in a way that should be unsettling but is only tragic.  Arthur scrapes at the unmarred skin with his teeth, canines too dull, flesh refusing to yield. The man ignores Arthur’s wordless protests and extricates his arm, tucking Arthur into his chest, fingers petting through his hair.

 

“There, now.  You okay, boy?”

 

Arthur isn’t, really; he’s still lightheaded, and his neck aches where he’s been bitten.  His bones feel off after being tackled to the ground so roughly. His throat is sore inside, like he caught a cough and hasn’t quite shaken it.  He knows he’ll be hoarse even before he speaks, so he nods instead.

 

Lifts his fingers to his face and rubs them over his chin, shoving every last drop of blood into his mouth.  He’s breathing hard. His chest is full.

 

Arthur wants to cry.  Doesn’t know why.

 

“It’s alright.  I’m Dutch Van der Linde.  What’s your name, son?”

 

It feels like there’s cotton in his mouth.  It’s loud when he opens it. Loud when he swallows to try and make words, and his answer comes out raspy and whispering.

 

“Arthur.”

 

Dutch’s fingers slip down, and press into the wound at his throat.  Pain flares sharp.

 

Arthur leans into it, and Dutch all but purrs.

 

“I got you now, Arthur.”

 

Arthur believes him.

 

Later it will seem like a threat.

 

Right now it sounds like a promise.

 

-

 

Arthur doesn’t turn.  Doesn’t know enough to be confused about that until later on, when he’s pliant under Dutch’s teeth in the quiet of their tent, lapping up drops of blood from a cut on Dutch’s thumb.  

 

It takes more than that to turn a thrall, Dutch says.  He’s never heard that word before, doesn’t know exactly what it means, but he also doesn’t mind.

 

Dutch can call him anything he likes.

 

_Gotta drain you dry, ‘til your heart stops beating, then fill you up again._

 

Arthur wants that.  Wants to stay by Dutch’s side.  Be his gun, and his knife, and his right hand.  Always.

 

Forever.

 

Not yet, Dutch says; Arthur has to grow, has to learn.  That’s all right, too. He can wait as long as it takes.

 

Dutch bites down again, opening up a new wound in Arthur’s throat with low growl, pulling his spine into an arch.

 

Until then, there is this— Dutch drinking him in, holding him close.

 

It’s not everything, but it’s enough.

 

-

 

His heart hammers in his ears.  His horse is running full tilt, following his lead in a way that takes familiarity— years of soft words and gentle touches and endless affection.

 

Yielding in a way that takes trust.  

 

That takes _love._

 

Arthur’s got his gun in one hand and his reins in the other, adrenaline coursing wild with every frantic breath.  A bullet whizzes past his head and blasts splinters out of a tree as they pass. He turns his head to look at Dutch, who’s riding just as hard and fast a few yards over.  The wind tangles his hair all around his face. There is yelling, and the loud rattle of more gunfire.

 

Neither of them is afraid.

 

Arthur’s hard.  Harder with every second.  Every desperate lungful of air, every erratic beat of his heart.  Everything goes quiet and disappears around him. There is only Dutch, and he smiles.

 

Licks over his teeth, and nods once.  Expectant.

 

Waiting.

 

Arthur turns in his saddle and raises his weapon.  

 

A deep breath.  The rhythmic pounding of his horse’s hooves on the ground.

 

The loud crack of his revolver, and then the men chasing them fall from their horses in unsettling unison, a single tidy bullet hole in each of their foreheads.  There are others in pursuit, but they’re further away and it won’t be hard to lose them.

 

When Arthur looks back at Dutch his eyes are black with want, and the thrill that runs through him is like lightning.  He holsters his revolver so he can push his horse faster, Dutch’s gaze on him a physical thing all the way back home.

 

When they get there Arthur is barely off his horse before Dutch has him pressed into a tree, kissing him hard.  The hitching posts are close enough to camp that Arthur can hear people milling around. Javier tuning his guitar, a couple of the girls laughing about something.  They’re not tucked away behind wagons, or secreted off in the woods.

 

Dutch slips his tongue in Arthur’s mouth, and his hand in Arthur’s jeans, and everyone can _see._

 

Arthur doesn’t care.  This is how it’s always been, how it’s always gonna be; Dutch taking what he wants, exactly how he wants it.

 

He breaks away from Arthur’s lips with a rumbling growl, mouthing down his throat.  Sometimes there are sucking kisses, lingering and slow. Dutch’s fingers on his jaw, Dutch’s voice in his ear.  Not today.

  
Today Dutch buries his teeth in Arthur with a snarl, knee shoved between his thighs.  Arthur slides down against it, legs shaky and threatening to give out as he holds onto Dutch’s shoulders.  Dutch works his cock in quick, vicious strokes, hand fisted in his hair to hold him in place while he drinks.  Arthur’s heart is still beating too fast, filling Dutch’s mouth in hot bursts.

 

The ecstasy of it hasn’t faded over time.  It’s stronger if anything, the brutal euphoria that soars through Arthur with every pull, the unfettered bliss of Dutch drinking him deep.  So much of Arthur is a part of him now.

 

He lives in Dutch’s veins.  Fills him up, feeds his hunger.

 

Dutch takes, and takes, and it’s both everything he needs, and never enough.  Will never be, until his heart stops beating.

 

Until he gives Dutch every last bit of himself, and lets his eyes drift closed.

 

Arthur’s head falls back against the tree, lolling to the side as his gaze roves mindlessly around them.  Someone’s walking past— John’s on watch, checking to see who got back. His shotgun looks too big in his arms, but he carries it with enough confidence that most people don’t notice.  Arthur’s eyes catch on him, mouth falling open as he bucks up into Dutch’s hand. Dutch growls. Arthur whines.

 

John stares, brows furrowed and bottom lip gnawed between his teeth as Arthur comes over Dutch’s fingers, jerking helplessly against his fist.  It’s not any sort of conclusion to things.

 

Dutch hasn’t even gotten started.  He draws back from Arthur’s throat, mouth bloody as he lifts his hand.  Dutch holds Arthur’s gaze, and licks up his come.

 

“Tent.”  

 

It’s an order, and Arthur moves like he’s under a spell.  Instantaneous, unquestioning obedience, drawn with invisible strings.

 

He stumbles through camp with his jeans open, neck still oozing gore and Dutch at his heels.  Nobody so much as looks as them twice, going about their business as usual while Dutch lays down on his cot and watches Arthur undress.  The tent flap hangs open, sunlight streaming inside, letting all the noise of camp filter past. Arthur straddles Dutch on trembling thighs and takes every inch of him with a moan.

 

He follows Dutch’s lead in a way that takes familiarity.  Years of soft words and gentle touches and endless affection.

 

Yields in a way that takes trust.  

 

That takes love.

 

John isn’t on guard duty anymore.  He’s sitting a little ways off, hand in his clothes and eyes glimmering with eagerness.  Ordinarily he’d be in trouble for abandoning his post, but Dutch won’t complain right now.  Arthur likes it when he watches, and John will be with them soon enough, opening up under Dutch’s teeth alongside him.  A few months. A year, at most. It’s just a matter of time. No one says anything outright, but everyone knows.

 

He’s young, and hungry, and eager to please.  

 

He’ll be gorgeous with Dutch’s fangs in his throat, open mouthed and sobbing his name.

 

He will be, but for now he watches Arthur twist in Dutch’s lap, hips rolling as does all the work.  Dutch’s hands are on his thighs, squeezing, rubbing them up and down before reaching out to take one of Arthur’s hands.  He kisses Arthur’s palm, then bites into his wrist.

 

Arthur comes over Dutch’s belly where he’s got his shirt rucked up, eyes rolled back in his head as he whimpers.

 

He’s a little dizzy already, but it’s alright.  Dutch will take care of it eventually, ease a few precious drops of his blood into Arthur’s mouth and bring him back to himself.

 

Dutch’s is good to him.  He won’t let him hurt, at least not for long.

 

He doesn’t notice that he’s stopped moving until Dutch slaps lightly at his thigh, and he nods, and whines, and starts riding him again.

 

“There’s my good boy,” Dutch says, murmuring into the blood slick skin of his wrist.

 

His eyes stay black, and he keeps drinking, and Arthur is his good boy well into the night.  


**Author's Note:**

> Tell me nice things or come yell at me on [twitter.](https://twitter.com/scifictioness?lang=en)


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